


A Safe Port in a Storm

by bioticbootyshaker, Defira



Series: The Unexpected Involvement of Love [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleeing from the destruction of Haven, the Inquisition is burdened with civilians, the injured and the dying, none of whom they are prepared to leave behind. When a sudden blizzard sweeps over them in the mountains, with very little in the way of shelter, Cullen's determination to save everyone puts his own life in danger- to the immense annoyance of Dorian. Saving his life seemed a simple enough thing to start with, but as the night stretches on and the blizzard keeps them trapped together, simple things have a terrible habit of becoming complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was beginning to wonder whether or not he attracted death to him. 

Kinloch Hold. Kirkwall. The Conclave, and now Haven was two days behind them and buried under several thousand tons of snow and rock; wherever he went, whatever course of action he took, death and violence seemed to stalk behind him like a wolf in the shadows, waiting for him to stumble, waiting for the right moment.

Cullen might have chastised himself for the dramatic chain of thought, were he not stumbling through a screaming blizzard as he rushed to secure the camp in the face of the monstrous storm that had rolled over the mountains not a half hour ago. The Avvar who travelled with them, the one who called himself Skywatcher, had warned them of such storms- the tantrums of Hakkon Wintersbreath, known for his petty childishness in demanding the attention of his followers without warning. The sky had gone from a clear, pale blue to black as pitch within minutes, the clouds surging over and between the peaks like water over a riverbed, horrifying and fascinating to watch. The occasional flash of lightning in the heights of the clouds only made them more mesmerizing, as they raced to prepare a camp several thousand strong for the onset of such terrifying weather. 

The temperature had dropped rapidly, enough so that it had roused a panic in some of the Haven townsfolk, already struggling with frayed nerves after the loss of their homes and familiar enough with the ways of the mountains to know what was about to befall them. The animals too, had begun to stomp and huff uneasily, pulling on ropes and digging in their heels and making an already difficult job that much harder. 

It was a race against time, the heavy booms of thunder echoing around the peaks and rattling through the valley like some damned warning bell, tolling their oncoming doom. 

The caravan was nearly a half a mile long at this point, soldiers and civilians and mages more accustomed to life in a tower and the vast number of injured who had struggled valiantly to survive since the attack on Haven; he sprinted through the snow, shouting out instructions as he ran, lunging in where he could spare the moment to help pull a tent into behaving. The wind was picking up ahead of the storm, whipping up the snow in flurries that stung exposed skin, tugging at the tent strings and generally making life more of a nightmare than it already was. 

There were screams on the air, snatched away by the growing winds, and he could only grit his teeth and keep moving, pray to the Maker and Andraste that everyone got their shelter ready in time, pray that the brief window of warning was enough for them. 

He had to believe it would be, because to think anything else was to give in to despair. 

The snow quite literally thickened before his eyes, the darkness creeping over the landscape as the storm rolled over them, and it wasn’t long before his feet were dragging and he had to put an arm up to shield his eyes from the fury of the wind. Dark shapes lurched up around him in the darkness, vague flashes of color and muffled noises as others ran to hide from the storm, and still he kept going; if even one person was left exposed, just one, he’d never forgive himself for not trying harder, for not pushing onwards, for not protecting them-

A huge shape lunged at him from out of the murk, and he threw himself into the snow, a bellowing roar and a large jaw snapping past where he’d stood mere seconds earlier. The cold burned through to his skin almost instantly, the snow turning to liquid beneath his armor plate and making him grit his teeth to bite back the agonized curses that wanted to snarl past his lips. Above him, the dark shape bellowed again, and a hefty hoofed foot came crashing down next to his ear. He rolled out of the way, now recognising the shape as a panicked bronto, and through the gloom he could just make out a smaller shape beside the creature. Stumbling to his feet, and keeping well back from the heavy kicks, he circled around the front of the animal to where a young elf girl- he couldn’t recall her name, but he recognised her from Haven- was clinging to the lead rope for dear life, tugging helplessly as she tried to coax the bronto back into shelter. 

The cold hurt more than anything he could have imagined, and it felt like a thousand tiny needles in his lungs when he inhaled. It was stunning, actually, how much it hurt, and for a moment he struggled to keep his feet under him, the soaking wet undershirt clinging like a vice around his chest. 

The bronto reared again, and the girl screamed, and Cullen snatched the rope from her hands. “Get to shelter!” he yelled, barely able to hear himself over the roaring of the wind. “Leave the beast!”

“But messere-”

“It’s a mountain animal!” he shouted, pushing her quite forcefully towards where he hoped the tents were. He sort of gotten himself a little turned around in the darkness. “It will look out for itself!”

The girl didn’t need to be told twice, and the storm swallowed her up in seconds, leaving him alone in the darkness with a half panicked bronto. He tossed the rope aside without thought, because as he’d said to her- the creature could fend for itself. That might mean they would be down one more packbeast come morning, but he’d take that chance happily. 

He shuddered violently and wrapped his arms around himself, not that they did a lot of good when the cold was already within him, so powerfully painful that it burned. The snow was coming down so fast now that he couldn’t even see his hands when he stretched them out in front of him, fumbling forward through ever deepening drifts towards where he’d last- hopefully- seen the tents. He couldn’t feel his fingers any longer, and he was just enough in control of his wits to know that was not a good thing, but he still-

Blast it all, where were the tents? The wretched bronto must have turned him right around, and he squinted into the swirling snow, trying to wipe the ice from his eyelashes with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers that seemed determined not to obey him. He cursed under his breath, or at least he thought he might have- he could scarcely even hear himself think over the screaming of the wind, and his teeth were chattering so violently he wouldn’t have been able to tell if he’d spoken anyway. 

He gritted his teeth and shook his head, his hair plastered to his skull like an ice cap; while his body heat had melted the snow to start with, now the storm was pummelling him so badly that the water in his hair and his clothes was freezing over again, _and he still couldn’t find the fucking tents_. 

Everything around him was a dark, swirling grey, and he wasn’t sure if he was dizzy from the cold, or dizzy from spinning on the spot staring desperately into the gloom hoping to spot a light or a shape or _anything_. His chest was heaving, but there didn’t really seem to be a great deal of air for him to breath, and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d meant to kneel or whether he’d fallen and-

\- and he couldn’t really concentrate, couldn’t focus, but he was very tired and the desire to sleep was suddenly intensely fierce, and maybe if he just took a break for a few minutes he’d be able to...

“ _Venhedis!_ ” There were rough hands on him, grabbing at him, and he made a feeble attempt to push them off, but his arms merely batted sluggishly at the owner of the hands. “You great fool of a man, get _up!_ ”

There was an arm under his, wrapped tight around his shoulders and tucked around his torso; his arm went over _their_ shoulders, limp and pathetic, and he couldn’t keep his weight on his feet when they pulled him upright, collapsing against them and prompting another round of curses that he could barely hear over the storm. 

“Festis bei umo canavarum, you stupid _stupid_ man.” It hurt to breathe, Maker did it hurt, but he had to try, had to keep trying. He clung to them, his rescuer, his hand clenched into a fist in the fabric of their cloak as they half dragged him through the snow. “Traipsing about in a snowstorm, as if you haven’t anything better to do, _honestly_.”

Panting, blinking away the snow in his eyes, Cullen managed to coordinate himself enough to lift his head, up to the face of his saviour. “Dorian?”

“No, actually, Madame de Fer, royally appointed enchanter to- you know what, I can’t even remember her spiel, and if she heard me she’d probably turn me into some unpleasant breed of weevil.” 

Fighting to keep himself conscious, Cullen had to concentrate intently on Dorian’s words, and even turning them over in his fog addled brain didn’t make any sense. “... what?”

“Fasta vass, save your energy Commander,” he said, his mouth set in a grim line. “You’ll be safe soon enough.”

That was an order he was more than happy to follow, his head drooping back down against his chest in exhaustion, only Dorian’s arm around him keeping him from planting forward into the snow. He couldn’t keep his focus long enough to see where they were going, or how far Dorian had to drag him; for all he knew, he could’ve collapsed only a half dozen paces from the tent, embarrassingly close to his own salvation and yet too far gone to have seen it in the darkness. 

And then there was a shape in the dark, looming large before them, and Cullen would’ve whimpered in relief had he the breath for it; as it was, he fell flat on his face the moment Dorian’s grip on him changed, half tumbling through the tent flaps as the other man tried to reach forward to nudge them aside. 

“Are you determined to make this affair as awkward as possible, Commander?” Cullen felt Dorian clamber over the top of him, hands and knees either side of where he lay exhausted on the ground, and then a moment later Dorian had his hands fisted in the shoulders of his fur pauldrons, dragging him bodily into the tent and out of reach of the storm. “By all means, let us bring as much of the snow through as possible! It’s not as if this was not already a colossally daft outing on your part and an even dafter idea on my part, why not add snow to the mix as well?”

Cullen lay shivering on the floor of the tent, only half conscious as Dorian moved to secure the buttons on the flaps. Now that he was out of the wind, his skin felt like it was bubbling from the ferocity of the pain, and if he could have breathed, he would have screamed; why did everything burn so ferociously when he’d encountered nothing but the opposite of heat? 

There were hands on him again, easing him onto his back, turning his face up gently with firm fingers beneath his chin. Dorian knelt over him, his brow furrowed and a look in his grey eyes that could only be described as incensed. 

“What...?” Cullen rasped, the same question again, but he was just as confused as before. He also couldn’t recall at what point he’d made note of the color of his eyes, enough that the sight of them should immediately set him at ease. 

“Saving your life, apparently,” Dorian said, his words slightly clipped in irritation. “Because, believe it or not, you are far from indestructible, and your silly mabari heart is going to get you killed at this rate.”

“My...” _What?_

“Maker’s Breath, your lips are blue.” Dorian clucked his tongue, as if he were scolding an errant child coming home from a day’s adventures with a rip in their best shirt. “We need to get you out of that wet clothing before it kills you.”

Perhaps it was the cold addling his wits; perhaps it was the way his head felt light and hollow, a result of the dizziness from earlier, but he _giggled_. “I am flattered, Dorian,” he said, his words a little slurred. 

Dorian’s hands paused briefly as they raced to loosen the straps on his armor. “I assure you, Cullen, I do not need to resort to taking advantage of half frozen barbarian idiots,” he said, settling back into the process of undressing him. After a moment, he muttered “And when you are sensible again I shall have your ear for even _suggesting_ it.”

Cullen considered protesting against the unintended disrobing, but with each piece of armor that Dorian removed he could only shiver violently at the touch of open air on bare, frozen skin.

This was... he gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut at the shudder that moved through his flesh, a groan forcing its way past his lips; a moment later, the soft fizzle of magic ran through him, Dorian’s hands smoothing over his skin as he murmured gently to him, words that he couldn’t quite make out in his half delirious state. Warmth followed Dorian’s fingers, blooming like hothouse flowers, and his body responded to the heat with a surge of adrenalin, leaving him shaking and winded as he lay trembling under his hands.

This was _unexpected_ , and the moment that thought even flitted through his head he realised how unkind it was to Dorian. Dorian, who had risked everything to walk into Haven with his head held high, weathering the curses spat in his direction and the filthy looks and the unending gossip that trailed in his wake; Dorian, who met every insult with a charming and vaguely threatening flirtation, as if their anger was so laughable as to be beneath him. Dorian, who did not make excuses for what he was, or the land he came from, and who had given nothing but his entire being over to the Inquisitor’s cause out of a desire to see the world safe and whole again. 

Their friendship was brief, and surprising, and despite what he might have thought otherwise prior to their meeting, he found he did not mind his company. Dorian had latched onto him with an enthusiasm that had seemed suspicious to him at first, seeking him out on the training fields when the Inquisition did not require his services, sticking his head into the council room when Cullen had lost track of the hours and forgotten to eat, teasing him and goading him and making him laugh.

“You, at least, are required to be civil to me, since your dear Herald has so kindly offered an alliance to the rebel mages,” Dorian had joked once several weeks ago, and Cullen had bit his tongue to hold back the obligatory ‘ _but you_ aren’t _one of the rebel mages_ ’ that had sprung to mind, because beneath the flippancy he sensed a great weariness in Dorian, a desperate yearning just to be judged by his actions now and not the past he had come from. Cullen understood that yearning, and if he had ever dreamed that the day would come when he would find something in common with a Tevinter magister- sorry, _altus_ \- it certainly wasn’t ever a dream that had lingered upon waking.

“I’m sure I can manage civility out of more than a sense of obligation,” he’d replied, shaking his head and smiling as he’d accepted the plate of food that Dorian had ferried over from the tavern. 

Dorian was strangely endearing, even allowing for his outrageous flirtations that seemed more about rousing a reaction from him than out of any genuine interest, and as Cullen’s wits slowly came back to him as he defrosted on the floor of Dorian’s tent, half naked and utterly vulnerable, he realised just how much he was enjoying the heat of his hands beyond the comfort of the warmth.


	2. Chapter 2

When Cullen’s eyes snapped open, no longer dazed and distant but sharp and pained, Dorian paused in his ministrations; if he was disoriented or confused, the last thing he wanted was for him to lash out in a panic upon finding himself partially undressed and apparently being manhandled. He lifted his hands slowly, keeping them where Cullen could see them. “Are we perhaps a little more coherent, now?” he asked, watching his face for any warning signs that his bewilderment was about to give way to irrational anger. 

Cullen’s brow furrowed, and his lips were parted as he panted- Dorian was trying immensely hard not to notice that, nor the way his chest moved under his hands- and he blinked in the lantern light several times before focusing on his face. “What...” His voice was hoarse, and he grimaced and swallowed rather pointedly, before trying again. “What happened?” 

Dorian chuckled, unable to help himself. “And here I was hoping you could enlighten me,” he said, resting back on his heels. “There I was, shivering and terrified, all alone in my tent, when lo and behold from outside I heard the most _tremendous_ noise. Summoning all of my courage-”

“Dorian.”

“I threw myself out into the clutches of the storm- remarkably brave on my part, I might add-, only to find a scene one would expect to find in the pages of some woefully written copper dreadful,” he continued. “There, before my very eyes, the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies, wrestling with a wild bronto in the midst of a blizzard!”

“ _Dorian_.”

Dorian's smile faltered at the tremor in Cullen’s voice, and he looked down to find Cullen smiling. Maker preserve, that was a sight, and it never came often enough. It was a good smile, sweet and open despite his weariness, and it made him look years younger. It was a raw sort of beauty, honest and effortless, and Dorian’s treacherously fickle heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of it. “Believe it or not,” he said, his voice softening, “there are people here who would miss you.”

“And that warranted you risking your own life for mine?”

It felt like a rebuke, and for a moment it stung like one. “By all means, Commander, I am not above dragging you back outside if you would prefer that to my humble company.”

“No, Dorian, I-” Cullen’s eyes fluttered closed, but not before Dorian caught the flash of regret in the dark brown depths. “I apologise. For endangering your own life and for intruding on your space.”

The apology knocked some of the righteousness out of his sails, and he sighed; he was so used to trading quips and being irreverent that it was difficult to remember that not everyone shared his particular brand of humor. “I reserve the right to endanger my life for whatever reason takes my fancy,” he said, settling for flippancy. 

Cullen’s laugh was hoarse and weak, but the sound of it alone was heartening; perhaps not everything was unrelentingly terrible if Cullen still had the strength to laugh. “And here I thought yourself rather vocal about the cold,” he said, rubbing wearily at his face. His hair was soaking wet again, clinging to his head in marvelously endearing ringlets that ought to have looked ridiculous, but only fascinated him. It seemed a daft thing for him to spend so long each day trying to hide such charming curls with hair oils. 

“Please,” Dorian said dismissively, as if the mere suggestion was beneath him, “if I didn’t want to be bothered by shivering Fereldans, I wouldn’t have come south. At least you’re easy to look at.”

The moment stretched out between them, surprisingly heated as Dorian’s words hung in the air; it was no different from any of the casual flirtations he’d offered to Cullen over the last few weeks, delighting in seeing him pause or blush, utterly gleeful whenever he’d subtly reciprocated, but admittedly none of their previous flirtations had taken place in a crowded tent in the midst of a snowstorm, with Cullen sopping wet and half naked. Cullen’s gaze was intense, and it was remarkably difficult to ignore the vast expanse of his chest, the scars that marred his skin and the dusting of golden hair that tapered down to nothing over his belly before leading intriguingly under the waistband of his breeches-

\- his breeches which were soaking wet and clinging and left very little to the imagination...

Dorian very pointedly looked up at the wall of the tent. _Mind out of the gutter, Pavus,_ he chastised himself silently. Given how deathly cold Cullen had to be, there wasn’t anything particularly impressive on display, but... he owed it to him not to ogle him while he lay freezing to death. “As it currently stands, you’ll have to weather the remainder of the blizzard in here,” he said, gesturing grandly to the interior of the small tent. He tried to ignore the tiny thrill in his stomach at the thought. “You’ve very probably done some damage to your extremities fumbling around in the snow like an aimless pup, and for the moment you’ve got no clothes to risk the storm in.”

It felt a little cynical on his part, chastising him for being so openly good in his intentions- Cullen wanted to help, even at the expense of his own health. Damnably foolish and intensely suicidal, yes, but it was also stupidly endearing. 

How dare he be so charmingly selfless and noble on top of being handsome, _honestly_. 

“Although speaking of clothes,” he said slowly, eyeing him critically, “you’ll need to strip off the rest. You can’t keep wet clothes on after nearly dying of hypothermia, you’ll only make things worse.”

While he suspected it was not possible for someone shivering so violently to go deathly still, Cullen certainly made a valiant attempt, his eyes widening and his wind-burnt cheeks flushing with color. “No, it’s... I mean, I probably need... I’m sure I’ll-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are _‘I’m sure I’ll be fine’_ then I’m going to blighted well send you off to sleep and strip you off myself.” That sounded rather sinister. “As adorable as your modesty is, oh mighty leader of the Inquisition’s army, your sense of self preservation is alarmingly non-existent.”

Cullen’s gaze flickered over him nervously, and he wasn’t shivering so much as... squirming? “I... I do not want to give the wrong impression,” he said hoarsely. “Or seem presumptuous. Or, uh, intrude upon your personal space, the last thing I want is to discomfort you...”

Dorian blinked as the words settled over him and slowly sank in- Cullen honestly thought that his nudity would be inherently threatening to him, or predatory? Even in his current state? Dorian didn’t know whether that was the most absurdly ridiculous concept ever or whether it was heartwarmingly chivalrous. “I’ll try to contain my intense desire for any sort of _impression_ ,” he said wryly, amused at Cullen’s desperate need to be a gentleman even at the cost of his own comfort. “You have my word, I promise I will not be overcome with bouts of wanton swooning and lustful grabbing at the mere sight of your tender flesh-”

“ _Dorian!_ ”

“Unless you’d prefer otherwise, of course,” he finished simply, grinning delightedly at the momentary flash of lust in Cullen’s eyes before it was buried beneath a blush so intense that it was a wonder he couldn’t feel the heat coming off of him. He licked his lips, watching as Cullen’s gaze zeroed in on his mouth. “Should I turn my back, Commander? Or do you need assistance with those naughty laces on your pants?” 

“That is _not_ helping!”

“Isn’t it?” Dorian asked, raising his eyebrows. “One of the greatest dangers with hypothermia is exhaustion and drowsiness leading to a state of unconsciousness followed ultimately by death- tell me, Commander, how are you feeling right now? Because when I found you in the snow a short time ago you seemed remarkably sluggish and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were about to take a rather fatally long nap.”

Cullen’s mouth was open as if he was about to retaliate, and for a moment it hung there as he gaped up at him before it rather forcefully snapped shut. 

“Dare I say you are feeling alert and aware, now? Perhaps even a little flushed?”

“Alright, alright,” he said, shuddering as he ran his hands through his wet hair. There was a slightly wild look in his eyes, and he was breathing a little harder than he had been a moment ago; if Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d suspect his teasing had actually hurt Cullen’s feelings. “Forgive me for trying to express concern for your feelings at being forced into cohabitation with me.”

Maker’s Breath, he _had_ hurt the daft fool’s heart. Before Cullen could move, he leaned forward and planted his hands either side of Cullen’s head, bowing his head in close to his; rather melodramatic, perhaps, but he was Tevinter, used to the performing and posturing of the Archon’s court, and drama came as naturally to him as breathing most days. Cullen, for his part, looked startled but wisely kept his mouth shut, his gaze rather tellingly slipping down to Dorian’s lips yet again. “I am not afraid of you, Cullen,” he said. There was no levity or humor in his voice now, the candor of their earlier banter gone. Instead his voice was low, rough; not quite sensual, because that would imply he was planning a seduction, but near enough. “You have forced nothing upon me that I did not enter into readily- I could very well have left you at the mercy of the elements, pretending I had heard nothing, but for some damnable reason I find myself fond of you and the thought of you freezing to the death in the snow seems upsetting to me.”

There was a brief flicker of shame in Cullen’s eyes, and his gaze broke from his. “Dorian...”

“No, shut up for a moment. What happened at Haven was terrible, there's no getting around that, but all things considered it wasn't as _terrible_ of as tragedy as it could have been. People died, yes, but so many more _lived_ \- so what are you doing, what do you want? To die alone in the darkness, to prostrate yourself, to be so consumed by guilt and shame that you can’t see what you’ve achieved?” He bit his words off mid rant, suddenly aware of how he’d let his emotions run away with him. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said carefully, deliberately slower with his speech, “I’d rather _not_ sit by idly and watch one of the only friends I have waste away out of grief and throw himself at death without a thought for how it will affect those of us left behind.”

There was a stunned silence in the aftermath of his tirade, and it occurred to him too late that he’d probably come across far too aggressively; admittedly, blurting out that he considered someone a friend was awkward enough without said declaration sitting squarely in the middle of a scathing rebuke. In his defence, it wasn’t like he was accustomed to calling someone a friend. 

He’d have to work on that. 

Cullen’s mouth was intriguingly close to his...

He lurched back onto his knees, pulling away quickly as he sat up and tucked his hands up under his arms, as if to warm them; Cullen sat up slower, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Dorian made a point to put space between them, to make sure not an inch of bare skin was touching, not necessarily because he wanted to be away from him, so much as he wanted to make Cullen more at ease. 

It was a decent enough lie that he almost believed it. 

Cullen raked his hands through his hair again, elbows resting on his knees as his fingers locked together behind his head. “I, um...” His voice was raw with emotion, and Dorian felt a treacherous bubble of something similar in his own throat. “I apologize, Dorian. That was immensely childish, and you deserve better of me. I am nothing but humbled and grateful for your concern and your offer of shelter.”

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out slowly, mentally chastising himself for losing his temper. “It’s fine, Cullen,” he said finally, when he felt more in control of himself. “But please, and I say this with the most sincerely innocent of intentions- you need to take your clothes off.”

The color in Cullen’s cheeks could possibly just be the burn from the windchill, but Dorian preferred to imagine it was a lingering blush; it certainly made his frustration a little more tolerable to fantasize that a handsome man like Cullen might be flushed at his words. “I, ah... I don’t suppose you might have a blanket I could...?”

With an overly dramatic sigh that roused a shy chuckle from Cullen, Dorian climbed to his feet, slightly stooped over in the confines of the tent, and shuffled over to the corner where he’d hastily piled his bed-things as the storm had closed in on them. He’d scarcely had time to activate his heated runestones before the calamity that Cullen had caused dragged him out into the screaming wind, but when he dug through the messy heap he was satisfied to feel the warmth soaking into the blankets. Grabbing up the top one, he ran his fingers over the seam, murmuring another layer of heat into the weave before he turned back to Cullen and tossed the blanket his way. 

“Here,” he said. “With my most sincere blessings.”

Cullen laughed awkwardly as he caught it and wrapped it around his shoulders, the look of relief on his face almost sexual. “I have to say, Dorian,” he said hesitantly, glancing at him quickly before looking away again, “I hadn’t really expected you of all people to be knowledgeable about, well, anything to do with something like hypothermia.” 

Dorian snorted in genuine amusement, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you _honestly_ think I would travel to the south without having done extensive reading beforehand about every single kind of plant and animal and weather pattern that might try to kill me?” On the other side of the tent, Cullen fumbled awkwardly to his feet, far less graceful than Dorian himself had been, the blanket not quite long enough to reach to the ground while it was wrapped so tightly around his shoulders. “This is the land that civilization abandoned, apparently, because there was far more to read than I was expecting and all of it was horrifying.”

The blanket went taut as Cullen stretched, yawning widely, and Dorian’s mouth went dry at the hint of muscles moving beneath the fabric. He cleared his throat and looked away, because it would be the _good_ thing to do, the _right_ thing to do, and if there was one thing he prided himself on more than his appearance it was that he knew he had spent his entire life trying to do the _right_ thing. But, just like when he was a boy and earned innumerable twists of his ear from his mother, he found that he couldn’t quite manage consistency. 

His gaze drifted back to Cullen as he undressed, his imagination filling in the tantalizing mystery that the blanket provided, his stare lingering a little longer than he’d intended. 

Cullen was already barefoot, and as Dorian watched he bent over suddenly, the blanket riding up the back of his legs to just above knee height. He went to suck in an appreciative breath and caught himself just in time, biting on a knuckle instead so that if Cullen spun about suddenly and caught him watching, he would simply appear deep in thought. 

_Maker, but he’s beautiful._ The thought surprised him, bursting out of his subconscious with a rush of heat that made him feel irrationally flustered, and he rubbed at his face as he tried to make sense of it. Of _course_ Cullen was handsome, he’d have to be blind not to appreciate the rugged width of his shoulders, the square cut to his jaw, the raw masculine sensuality in his gentle smile... but this, this lurching feeling in the pit of his stomach, this was something more, and it almost made him ache to look at him. 

_Bad timing, Dorian,_ he thought grimly. _Perhaps don’t choose the end of the world to develop a hopeless attachment to a stubbornly honourable man, next time._

Cullen cursed softly under his breath, and Dorian felt the blood rush out of his head as Cullen awkwardly tried to peel his sodden breeches down his legs; the blanket provided only a modicum of modesty, and Dorian took a shaky breath as he watched the clinging fabric reluctantly slide away from his skin, the same smattering of rusty blond hair he’d run his fingers through on his chest also covering his bared legs. As Cullen bent lower to unhook the wet material from where it had caught around his foot, his ass was silhouetted almost tauntingly before him, still damp from the breeches if the way the blanket clung lovingly to his skin was anything to go by. 

He shook himself violently, pointedly looking away and clearing his throat to draw Cullen’s attention to him; Cullen glanced over his shoulder, one hand keeping the blanket clutched tight around him while he held the wet clothing in the other. 

“I can take those for you, if you’d like,” he said, trying to adopt an airy tone, trying to imply that he wasn’t the slightest bit moved by Cullen’s unintentional performance. “I think I have a spare heat stone in my pack, I can set them out to dry.”

Cullen was still shivering, a hint of purplish-blue in his trembling lips, but his color in general was a lot better, and his eyes were bright and alert. He looked down at Dorian’s outstretched hand, his fingers tightening slightly on the bundle of clothing. “I can promise you now, Dorian, you have nothing to fear from me,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush as if he was half afraid to say them. “I will not take advantage-”

Dorian stepped in close and put his hand over his, taking note of the way Cullen drew in a breath sharply and stopped mid sentence. “My dear Commander Rutherford,” he said quietly, carefully taking the clothing from him. “Your continued protestations that you have no intentions to ravish me make me suspect that the thought of such deliciously wicked pleasures occupy a goodly portion of your thinking.”

For several agonizingly long moments, Cullen’s mouth moved as if he was struggling to speak, and Dorian’s flippantly charming smile began to slip. “Cullen?” When he glanced away almost guiltily, Dorian felt his heart lurch up into his throat. “Maker’s Breath, you aren’t actually-”

“I said you have nothing to fear!” he blurted out, eyes almost wild as he took a hasty step backwards. 

“You find me attractive?” Dorian pressed, unable to help himself. 

“Of _course_ I do,” Cullen said, with such ferocity in his voice that Dorian blinked in surprise. “I’m only human and I...” He swallowed nervously. “I have desires, like most others.” 

Dorian leaned in closer, and this time Cullen did not retreat skittishly. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Cullen,” he said softly. “I am by no means one of your meek Circle mages, and if you were to do something that I objected to? You would have one chance to rectify your mistake, and one chance alone. So if, perchance, you decided to act upon your...” He glanced down at Cullen’s mouth, licking his own lips. “... _desires_ , shall we say, you can rest assured that if I found such attentions unworthy of me I would not hesitate to put an end to them.”

Cullen didn’t move, but Dorian could feel his breath on his mouth. 

“Now, if it appeals to you, you may take advantage of my body heat to ward off any further damage from the hypothermia.” This part came easily to him, the part of the dramatically overblown seducer, and with Cullen determined to work himself into a fluster at some ridiculous notion that he would only be helpless before him, he needed the aggressive strength of the charming rake persona to convince him otherwise. “But I am not afraid of you, Cullen.”

“You should be,” Cullen said miserably, looking away.

That was it; that was the final straw. “Oh, you _dramatic_ blighted fool, give me your clothes,” he said sharply; he snatched the damp bundle from his hands and stomped over to where his pack lay open, the contents strewn around it in a jumbled circle. Sorting quickly through the mess, he dug out a mundane looking flat stone and breathed forcefully on it, a symbol flaring to life on the surface as the rune activated. “Did that work often in the Circle, did it? Did your little Circle waifs love the brooding, heartsick templar, torn between duty and ecstasy, the thrill of forbidden passion?”

“It’s not like that,” Cullen stammered, and Dorian rolled his eyes. 

“ _‘Thank you for saving my life tonight Dorian, you’re such a good friend’; ‘oh, it’s no bother Cullen, I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time’._ ” He turned back in time to see Cullen wince, but he couldn’t help himself from pressing deeper at the wound. “ _‘I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have a friend like you Dorian, I can’t imagine my life without you’; ‘well, Cullen, for one thing, your life would’ve been a lot shorter without my valiant heroism’._ ”

“ _Maker’s Breath_ , I _get_ it,” Cullen said, the words almost a snarl. “I’m sorry, Dorian, I’m immensely _overwhelmingly_ sorry- is that what you want to hear? I could spend the rest of my life apologizing and it wouldn’t even chip away a fraction of the debt I’ve incurred across the years, but-” 

“There was _nothing more_ you could have done,” Dorian said loudly, climbing back to his feet and crossing the small space to stand before him again. He hesitated for only a moment before he put both hands on Cullen’s shoulders; he considered the appeal of shaking him, to see if that would rattle some sense into him, but instead he just squeezed gently, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath his fingers. “Punishing yourself for the rest of time achieves nothing, except to make everyone else around you miserable while they deal with your moodiness.”

Cullen held his gaze for a second, and then two, and then three; the moment stretched out, raw and intimate, with Cullen naked but for the blanket and Dorian’s hands so close to touching his bare skin. It occurred to him that were this some dreadful adventure serial like Cassandra was so fond of, this would probably be the right moment to throw caution to the wind and lean in and kiss him. 

He swallowed, priding himself for not looking down at Cullen’s mouth. “You could have died out there,” he said softly. “I have very few friends, Cullen, and I would take it rather personally if you decided to shorten the list.” 

Cullen finally looked away, grief and shame and longing in his eyes as his hand came up almost subconsciously to rest over Dorian’s wrist. “I had to make sure,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t let anyone else die.”

“And are you unworthy of being counted amongst those you had to save?” He knew Cullen had to feel his racing pulse, the way his skin prickled with awareness at his touch. 

It gave him the shock of his life when Cullen’s head drooped to the side, his cheek coming to rest against Dorian’s hand where it rested on his shoulder, his lips perilously close to the place on his wrist where his pulse fluttered like a wild bird beneath the fragile skin. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes closed; after a moment he laughed softly, the warmth of his breath fanning over Dorian’s hand. “Maker, it feels like all I ever do is apologize to you.”

“Well, that’s _absolutely_ not true,” Dorian said, biting his lip as he risked turning his hand over, cupping Cullen’s cheek in his palm so hesitantly it was a wonder he didn’t open his eyes to complain about the shaking. The stubble on his jaw scratched softly at his hand, and he shivered. “You spend a great deal of your time infuriating me. Forgetting to eat, working yourself to exhaustion, hurling yourself dramatically at brontos in the middle of a blizzard...” 

“I did not _hurl_ myself-”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, _valiantly wrestled_ ,” Dorian corrected. Cullen laughed again, and his fingers on Dorian’s wrist seemed strangely gentle, his thumb brushing back and forth slowly. He swallowed, a dizzy surge of heat going through him while his skin tingled where Cullen’s fingers rested. “Are all Fereldans this stubborn or are you just special amongst your countrymen?”

“Will it open me up for more teasing if I declare myself particularly special?”

Dorian’s stomach felt like it was full of butterflies, and as much as he wanted to answer Cullen’s gentle flirtation with one of his own, his tongue seemed determined to thwart him. Instead he cleared his throat and said “And I feel a wretched host for having ignored the bare essentials, but... are you warm enough, now? Does anything still hurt?”

The abrupt change in conversation clearly startled him, because his hand fell away as if Dorian had burned him. “I, um...” 

“I can add more glyphs for heat,” he said, suddenly self conscious of his hand upon his face, and he lurched back a step. “It’s no bother.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Cullen said, just as quickly, his hand falling back to his side; if Dorian hadn’t been paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed the way he flexed his fingers, as if his skin was tingling. “My fingers ache a little, but it’s fine. I can make myself comfortable over here; I expect I’ll be fine by the morning.”

Dorian blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Cullen glanced at him. “I can make myself comfortable here,” he repeated, gesturing to the ground closest to the door. 

“There is a perfectly suitable bed roll over here,” Dorian said, pointing in the other direction to where the mass of blankets sat. “You’re not going to sleep on the floor of a tent in the middle of a snowstorm when you can be warm and comfortable.”

“But that’s where _you’re_ sleeping.”

“And strangely enough, despite my lavishly spoiled upbringing, I am quite capable of sharing.” He hesitated for a moment, a lifetime of caution warring with lustful enthusiasm within him, before his expression softened and he reached out for him. “Come here,” he whispered, taking Cullen’s free hand in his and twining their fingers together, tugging him gently away from the tent flaps and towards the pile of furs and blankets. “Come here with me and get warm.”

Cullen shivered. “I am warm,” he said hoarsely, following obediently after him.

“Warmer, then.” 

“I don't want to intrude,” he said, pulling up just short of the bedroll and the piles of furs. “I shouldn't even...”

Dorian pulled a little harder on his hand, not enough to send him toppling over onto the blankets, but enough to keep his attention. “Shouldn’t what, Commander?” he asked.

“You need the bed.”

“We can _share_ the bed. We are both adults, are we not?” There was a limit to how far his conscience would let him push and prod, and they were fast approaching it; he did not have a word for the powerful charge between them, but he knew he desperately wanted Cullen to embrace it on his own, because he both wanted and desired it. Not because Dorian had tricked him into it, or outwitted a tired, half frozen soldier too polite to directly deny him. 

With a rush of heat in his belly and his loins, he realised that he rather desperately wanted... _Cullen_ , a revelation that made him suddenly vastly suspicious of his own motivations all evening. Kaffas, and here he’d thought the illicit trysts of his days in Tevinter to be complicated- _Maker save him from honorable, muscular southern soldiers._

Cullen seemed at war with himself, his jaw working as if he was fighting to hold back a storm of words; the blanket tightened a little over his shoulders, his hand making a fist over his chest. “I would not have you without a bed on my account,” he said stiltedly. “I-” He swallowed and started again. “If we are to share, I will be respectful of whatever space you require.” _Maker take him, this giant puppy of a man was going to be the death of him._ “I am... I do not... I do not make a habit of sharing beds, so I am not certain of the etiquette involved here.”

Dorian threw all caution to the wind and settled down against the misshapen nest of blankets, propping himself up on his elbows as he glanced up at Cullen with the sultriest look in his arsenal, eyes half lidded and suggestive. There was no point in subtlety at this point, not with the way Cullen’s eyes moved over him while he reclined provocatively in front of him, back arched just a little as he made a show of digging underneath his hips for a lump in the blankets, his shirt riding up just enough to expose his belly and the flash of color in his navel. “I doubt this is found in many etiquette books,” Dorian said coyly, tugging the offending blanket out from under him. “Come on, Commander. I won't bite.”

If Cullen rebuffed him, he would let the issue-

“ _But I want you to._ ”

The request came out of nowhere, sudden enough to cut Dorian’s train of thought off instantly, and enough to have Cullen’s eyes widen in a panic, before determination steadied his gaze. He lifted his chin almost defiantly, his fist clenched so tight in the folds of the blanket that his knuckles were white. 

Dorian took a deep breath, doing his best to sound casual. “Forgive me, Commander, but I worry I misheard you- did you in fact say just now that-”

“That I said I want you to bite me,” Cullen said, his words almost aggressively sharp but his expression pained, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was saying them out loud. “Apparently, yes, I did.”

_Fasta vass._

He worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, casually taking stock of Cullen like he wasn’t nearly vibrating with need. His hair was still damp, the curls loose about his head, and Dorian’s fingers itched with the desire to push through them and wind the wet coils around his fingertips. To dig in tight, clinging for dear life in the throes of passion, pulling and pushing him into place and to use him as an anchor when pleasure threatened to sweep him away. 

He was _glorious_ , Dorian decided abruptly, with no other descriptor adequately capturing Cullen's presence. He was angular and sharp, soft in the places that begged to be touched, nervous and defiant as he stood before him in his borrowed blanket, rawly sexual and yet... gentle. 

The moment lengthened, tense and delicious, and Dorian found his fingers curled into the blankets, the fabric bunched up between his fingers as the thrill of the seduction slid through his veins. “Well now,” he said finally, proud of the fact that his voice didn’t tremble, “if that’s the case, aren’t you going to join me?”


	3. Chapter 3

His gaze narrowed to Dorian's mouth, watching the way his teeth pulled at his bottom lip, watching the way his tongue darted out to soothe the faint sting of the bite. What would they look like, swollen from kisses, what would they taste like? What would it feel like to have Dorian hot beneath him, trembling and wild and moaning against his mouth, and-

_Maker preserve him._

He had no problem being attracted to Dorian- the sex of a bed partner had never worried him overly, so long as they were kind and consenting and enthused by his attentions- but how would it look, taking advantage of their situation to press... what? A suite on him? His attentions? His brain was buzzing a thousand leagues an hour, spinning between his worries about the storm and his growing desire to just wrap himself around Dorian and lose himself in him until morning. 

Dorian’s eyes were dark and welcoming, shining like quicksilver in the flickering light of the lantern; his skin was warm and shimmered like burnished bronze. He was reclining casually, as if they weren’t trapped together in the middle of a devastating blizzard, as if Cullen hadn’t just blurted out the most lecherous thought in his head, _as if Dorian hadn’t just invited him to indulge that thought._

The flash of color on his belly was driving him mad; he wanted to tear his shirt up and around his arms, leaving him trapped and at his mercy, he wanted to press his mouth to that taunting hint of color and tongue it and suck it and taste it while Dorian writhed and gasped and whimpered, arms pinned above his head...

He fell to his knees at the edge of the blankets, not quite eagerly but unable to fight the intense desire within him any longer. Dorian’s gentle smirk both delighted and frustrated him, and his fingers twisted so tightly into the front of the blanket that it was a wonder he didn’t rip it. 

“You have nothing to fear from _me_ , Commander,” Dorian said teasingly, throwing his foolish words back at him in jest, and Cullen felt his face redden further. “Come now, didn’t you say the cold was still making your fingers ache? Don’t you want me to see to that?” 

Nodding mutely, Cullen shuffled forward on his knees until he was close enough that his thigh was resting against Dorian’s hip; there was such heat radiating off of him, so intense and alluring and Cullen fought the urge to just close his eyes and sink down on top of him. He went to hold out his free hand for Dorian’s inspection, snatching it back an inch out of embarrassment when he saw how badly it was shaking, but Dorian merely _tsked_ him softly and sat up, taking his outstretched hand between his. 

“Mm, yes, I can see why this would be causing you distress,” he murmured, turning his hand over carefully. Cullen shivered, panting softly as Dorian traced his fingers slowly over the dips and lines of his palm. “Now, my healing is not my forte, but I believe I have a thought for how to improve your condition.”

Saying that, he glanced up at Cullen with a gaze so heated that Cullen gasped, the sound trailing off into a high-pitched moan when Dorian led his hand up to his mouth and pressed an open mouthed kiss to his palm, swirling his tongue along the lines his fingers had traced just a moment before. He made a purring sound of approval as Cullen whimpered, his mouth moving down his fingers to suck firmly at the tips. 

What little modesty the blanket provided for him was now nowhere to be seen, his cock tenting the fabric where he held it clutched tight around him. When Dorian let his lips slide wetly down to engulf several fingers within his mouth entirely, Cullen cried out, panting desperately at the hot, wet glide of his tongue, while his cock twitched with each taunting suck. 

Dorian smirked around his fingers, his lips gliding up and down in a rather deliberately unfair motion. “Is this easing the distress of your condition, Commander?” he whispered hotly against his slick fingers. “Are my ministrations required elsewhere, perhaps?”

His skin was burning again, but not from the cold now, and his chest was heaving, and he’s a _good_ and _respectful_ man, the kind of man who _doesn’t_ wildly fuck an acquaintance in a tent, because Dorian deserves far _better_ than that, but-

Fuck it. 

“Dorian,” he whispered, choking on his beautiful name as he stared at his fingers in his mouth, and he meant to add _I don't want to take advantage of our situation, of you._

“Dorian,” he said again, louder now and more of a growl as he tore his hand from his mouth and lunged for him, toppling them both over onto the blankets, and he wanted to say _You are far more important to me than a quick tumble in a tent._

“ _Dorian_ ,” he moaned instead, because it was easier to pin him to the bedroll and bury his fingers hard in his hair, dragging him forward the last few inches to crush his mouth against his.

He should be gentle, he should be slow and tender and careful but he could feel Dorian’s erection pressed against his belly, and nothing seemed to make sense but to touch every single inch of him, to kiss and stroke and bite every exposed bit of skin until Dorian was sobbing and exhausted and clawing at him. He’d nearly died so many times, and tonight he just wanted the freedom to feel alive and wild and desirable, knowing someone wanted _him_ and not just the role he filled as a soldier or a captain or a commander. 

He tasted like magic, the subtle tingle along his tongue, and he tasted of wine and spice and cloves. Cullen twisted his fingers tighter in his hair, winding through the dark locks until Dorian was pinned tight against him, bodies pressed hard against one another. He growled against his mouth at the touch of his fingers, nails teasing over his bare chest before his sliding up to his shoulders and pushing aside the blanket, one arm wrapped tight around him while the other tugged the blanket out from between them and tossed it aside. 

Dorian pulled away momentarily, breathing heavily as his eyes glanced quite pointedly downward; Cullen flushed, knowing he couldn’t possibly see anything while they lay wrapped around one another, but awkwardly shy about the implication of such a look. “Why, Commander, you’ve been hiding quite a masterpiece underneath all that armor and fur,” he panted, his hand sliding between them to press flat against Cullen’s belly, nails curling against him until he shuddered and cursed under his breath, crowding in again to kiss him so that his fool heart stopped trying to make itself heard. 

But... “Please,” he said hoarsely, kissing the words to Dorian’s mouth, “please just say my name-”

“ _Cullen_ ,” Dorian whispered instantly, his hand sliding over his hip to grab at his bare ass, and when Cullen gasped and jerked his hips in response, Dorian slid his tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss until they were both frantic, hands moving everywhere and hips grinding together and _Maker_. “Be wicked for me, _Cullen_.”

He broke away briefly, panting hard as the tantalizing thought of Dorian's bare skin pressed hot and firm against his own flitted through his head. In the dim light of the tent, Dorian looked ridiculously pleased, his eyes rather dazed despite this, and his mouth- _oh Maker_ , his mouth was swollen from his kisses, lips fat and wet and Cullen can't help but surge in again, all teeth and tongue and need as he kissed him hungrily.

Dorian chuckled, the sound rumbling up from his chest. “That’s a rather splendid response to hearing your own name,” he said breathlessly, letting out an agonized whimper when Cullen slid his thigh between his legs and rubbed it against him. “ _Ah_ , kaffas-”

He was burning, sure that his blood must be boiling, that he must be breathing steam from the heat building under his skin. Dorian was hot and wild and soft and _perfect_ , kissing him back with all the fervor he hadn’t dared to imagine; it was a kiss that rattled his bones and sent delicious little shockwaves fizzling up his spine and along his thighs.

He let out a frustrated groan as his fingers tugged uselessly at the buckles on Dorian’s clothes. “Dorian,” he growled warningly.

Dorian threw his head back with a delighted moan, exposing his neck to Cullen’s mouth. “ _Maker_ , I love the way you say my name,” he said, gasping when Cullen bit at the edge of his jaw. 

“ _Dorian_ ,” Cullen said obediently, kissing the slight red mark on his skin where his teeth had been.

“You say it like it’s holy,” he said with a shiver. “Are you going to worship me, amatus?” 

Cullen pulled pack, just an inch or so, just enough to look him in the eyes. “What does that mean?” he panted, gaze flicking over his beautifully dishevelled face, lips bruised from his kisses and hair a riotous mess from his hands. 

“What do you want it to mean? _Cullen_.”

The way he stretched underneath him was deliberately cruel, his legs sliding apart so that Cullen was pressed firmly between them; Cullen groaned and his hips thrust roughly against him almost of their own volition. The novelty of being naked in his arms while Dorian remained fully clothed was fast becoming a frustration, the damnable fabric of his pants thwarting him from his desire to buck against him comfortably. 

The answer, of course, would be for Dorian to-

“I need _you_ ,” Dorian panted, apparently reading his mind. “Blight take these _damned_ clothes. _Fasta vass_.”

Cullen groaned, desire spiking through him at the needy whine in Dorian’s voice. He lunged back up to his mouth, the motion driving a desperate whimper from Dorian, hands clutched tight around his shoulders. He didn’t give Dorian the opportunity to ask what had overtaken him- because it wasn’t like he knew himself- instead kissing down his jaw, down his throat. He could feel Dorian’s pulse beating frantically beneath his tongue and he pressed in with teeth, just enough to leave a mark upon the delicate skin. 

His fingers still felt useless, fat and burning from the cold, but he fumbled with the buckles on Dorian’s shirt all the same. With each one that he clicked open, Dorian let out a little moan that made his heart race faster. 

“Sit up,” he grunted, hauling himself back onto his knees and pulling Dorian up in the same motion; there was a brief moment where Dorian’s gaze slid down his body, an appreciative growl hissing from him as he took in Cullen’s nudity. He went to reach for him but Cullen batted his hand aside and grabbed at the hem of his shirt, and a moment later he had it up over his shoulders; Dorian shivered a little at the sudden touch of cooler air against his bare skin, settling back on his elbows again while Cullen tossed aside the garment. 

Cullen’s breath caught in his throat when he looked back down at Dorian, his hair dishevelled from his hands, his lips swollen from his kisses, his brown skin smooth and tempting. The jewel in his navel glittered in the low light, and the urge to trace his tongue around it grew; his nipples were dark little buds that made his mouth water with the need to taste them. 

He looked up, meeting Dorian's gaze. “Maker, but you’re beautiful,” he whispered, stunned by the intensity of his desire.

There was a brief moment where Dorian’s expression faltered, where something awed and vulnerable flickered through his eyes, before a smirk settled back into place on his mouth and the moment was gone. Dorian rather pointedly let his gaze wander down the length of Cullen’s body where he knelt over him, his hand coming up to run fingers softly over the top of his thigh. Cullen shuddered, eyes sliding closed, as his hand ran dangerously close to his aching cock. “Mmm, I know,” Dorian purred, face flushed and eyes dark with need when Cullen risked looking back down at him again. “And you, amatus. We make a beautiful pair, don’t we?”

There, that was the flirtatious man he was used to, all confidence and amusement. The flippancy stung for a moment, but it grounded him- that was the Dorian he knew, that was the Dorian he’d expected. 

It didn’t matter that his heart had leapt for a moment thinking Dorian would reciprocate the blurted compliment with honesty. 

Instead, he took his hand and dragged him forward, pulling him astride his knees, his hands going flat against his back as he pulled him to him and kissed him; Dorian’s thighs were tight around his hips, and Cullen groaned against his mouth at the sensation of his cock rubbing against his bare stomach as Dorian deliberately and slowly ground his hips down on him. Cullen fumblingly slipped back against the pile of furs, pulling Dorian down with him, groaning at the way Dorian’s heat seeped into him, at the way his legs straddled his hips while Dorian took advantage of the changed positions to kiss him more languidly. Little jolts of magic danced from Dorian’s teasing fingers, tiny sizzling arcs of electricity that shivered through him and made him moan, hips jerking almost wildly, and he kept one hand buried in Dorian’s hair while the other drifted down to grab at his still frustratingly clothed ass.

Dorian’s pleased rumble of laughter against his mouth tasted like paradise. “Something amiss, Cullen?”

His name again, so wicked and so perfect on his tongue. “I-” _Just say it_. “I need-”

The kiss blinded him, ferocious and demanding, enough to leave him breathless by the time Dorian pulled away. “Let me,” Dorian whispered, against Cullen’s lips. And again on his throat, the words pressed in with a kiss, and then lower again, his breath ghosting over Cullen’s nipple until his teeth scraped over the sensitive flesh a moment later.

“Let me,” Dorian said, swirling his tongue over the slight sting left by his teeth, sucking just hard enough to make Cullen arch up against him before his mouth wandered lower, licking at the patch of hair below his navel. “I want to make you feel good, amatus.”

There was that word again, and if Cullen didn’t know the translation explicitly, the meaning itself was fairly clear from the way Dorian purred it so teasingly. Some sort of sexual endearment, perhaps, undoubtedly something that would make him blush were he to know the meaning in the cold light of day

Cullen whimpered, more aroused than he could ever recall being in his life, his skin too hot and too tight and his body awash with wild sensation and- oh Maker, _Dorian_ \- and bemused as to how it was that only a half hour ago he had been freezing to death in a blizzard. Now Dorian’s mouth was on him, his clever mouth and his clever fingers working in tandem to drive him out of his mind. He had not allowed himself to want this, even though Dorian’s teasing made it nigh on impossible some days to not think about this or to dream and fantasize; he couldn’t allow himself to want him, because there had been so much more at stake than his own desires, his own happiness.

There still was so much at stake. 

But _Maker_ , what he felt for Dorian went beyond mere want and careened straight into desperate, hungry need; he needed him the way he needed air, the way he needed food. He hadn’t wanted to dream it possible, because what good would it do him to waste time pining on an impossible dream, and yet...

He watched stunned as Dorian purred endearments against his skin, teeth making the message a little more permanent, and he leaned up on one elbow to watch as Dorian crawled down the length of his body; he was intensely self conscious of his cock so close to Dorian’s mouth, almost to the point where his urge to cover himself outweighed the wild hunger in him. His eyes felt almost frantically wide and his mouth was hanging open as he whimpered, desperate, as Dorian ran his tongue along the line of his hip, pressing open mouthed kisses to the curve. He reached forward with a shaking hand, running his fingers up into Dorian’s hair, trembling so fiercely it was a wonder he didn’t vibrate out of his skin entirely. 

“Is there something _particular_ you wanted from me right now, my _dear_ Commander Cullen?” Dorian looked back up at him with a wicked grin on his face, grey eyes slumberous and half lidded as he made eye contact, and he very deliberately bowed his head to whisper his lips over his cock. That in itself was enough for a strangled gasp to break free of his lips, a violent shudder passing through him as Dorian blew softly on him, chuckling. “My my, but you _are_ rather excitable, aren’t you?”

“Dorian,” he rasped, fighting the urge to buck his hips. 

“And such a _tantalizing_ paragon of manliness, too- I’d almost say it’s cruel to keep you clothed, given how magnificent the view is-”

“ _Dorian,_ ” he whimpered, and it meant everything. A plea, a demand, a declaration. “ _Please._ ”

Dorian’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, that same look of awe and vulnerability from earlier flashing across his features, and then it was gone and the wild and wicked hunger was back, his gaze heated enough that it made him whine needily. He held eye contact as he leaned down slowly and ran the very tip of his tongue down the length of his cock. “Please, what?” he asked softly, grinning wickedly at Cullen’s urgent sob. 

“ _Please-_ ”

“Please _what_ , Cullen?”

Cullen decided he was either going to explode or going to kill him. “Please... _take_ me,” he said hoarsely, proud of himself for not stuttering even as on edge as he was, light-headed and giddy and desperate.

Dorian chuckled. “You should have just said so earlier,” he said, and he righted Cullen’s cock with his fingers before sliding his mouth around him, taking him right to the back of his throat in one swift, practised move. His hands pressed down on his hips and his thighs, pinning him down and coaxing his legs farther apart as Dorian buried himself between them. 

Cullen threw his head back, choking back a cry, both hands going to Dorian’s head to- what? Urge him forward, cradle him gently, pull him away? A thousand wild and desperate thoughts spun through his head as Dorian’s lips closed tight around him, and he just felt so _good_ and so _hot_ and _oh Maker his tongue-_

There was a blizzard roaring outside the tent, but he was sure he was making enough noise to rouse the whole camp, groaning and panting and fighting the urge to buck up against his mouth, his perfect mouth. Dorian’s hands kept his hips pinned to the pile of furs, his fingers tight enough that he was sure to be sporting a ring of tiny bruises come the morning; he moved up and down on his cock with exquisite care, lapping at the head and then swallowing him down again, fingers squeezing gently at his balls and rubbing teasingly at the sensitive skin below them, sucking and licking and taunting until Cullen was seeing stars. He was writhing under his touch, rutting even against the pressure of his hands because he _had_ to, his hands desperate and encouraging and frantic in Dorian’s hair. 

The heat built in his stomach, the backs of his thighs tightening as the pressure grew. “ _Dorian_ ,” he choked.

“Do you want to come for me?” Dorian purred, his voice rough as he ran his tongue over the head of his cock, being particularly attentive to the slit until Cullen was writhing under him. “I want you to.”

Cullen’s answer was nothing more than a keening sob, his hips rutting against his face, and Dorian chuckled, kissing and sucking the head of his cock as his wet fingers closed around him and stroked him. He licked his way lower as his hand kept up the rhythm, and sucked his balls softly into his mouth, rolling them gently over his tongue. 

“ _Dorian._ ”

“You are so gorgeous like this,” Dorian said, one hand still stroking him while the other slid between his ass cheeks to press tauntingly at him. “The way you move, the way you taste, the noises you make-”

He cut himself off mid sentence, all but lunging to swallow his cock deeply into his mouth; there was no finesse or gentleness to his movements, no teasing now. The hunger in his eyes was almost desperate, and Cullen couldn’t have stopped himself from thrusting up into his mouth even if he’d wanted to.

He was whimpering, halfway out of his mind, and Dorian looked like sex incarnate sucking on his cock like that. His eyes were dark and his lips were swollen as they sucked at his cock and his mouth- _oh Maker his mouth_ \- and the way the dim light from the lantern danced over his bare back, the way his own hips thrust against the ground, as if he was enjoying pleasuring him as much as Cullen was in receiving the pleasure.

“I want-” He could barely talk, stuttering almost violently. “I want- Dorian, _yes_ , I-”

Cullen came with a strangled cry, his back arching up from the bedroll as his heels dug in violently, scrabbling for purchase amongst the blankets; something that sounded like a curse and sounded like Dorian’s name and sounded like a prayer choked out from deep within him as the orgasm overtook him. He spilled over his lips and tongue, crying out when Dorian suckled fiercely and stroked his tongue over him hungrily; he could only watch spellbound as he lapped up every drop, cleaning his head with slow, swirling caresses of his tongue.

Apparently aware he was being watched, Dorian glanced up at him and smiled devilishly, swallowing very pointedly before he kissed tenderly at the tip of Cullen’s still twitching cock, laughing roughly when he jumped and gasped.

“I’d say you’re a fair bit warmer now, aren’t you?” Dorian asked, with a mischievous smirk.

_Maker._

He-

_Maker._

Breathing, that was something he could manage, yes? Or, something like... 

“Am I dead,” he said hoarsely instead, because he had never _ever_ come like that before, never lost himself entirely in someone else before; he had been stumbling around in the depths of the blizzard not all that long ago, and now here he was, laid out like a wanton treat for Dorian to gorge himself on and if that isn’t the stuff the afterlife is composed of, then what’s the point?

That smile, Maker that smile would be his undoing. With shaking hands he brushed Dorian’s damp hair away from his eyes, and with shaking hands he grabbed him and urged him upwards, arms going tight around his shoulders as he crushed him to him and kissed him as if the world was about to end.

In a way, it almost was. And if he had to spend the last of his days with just one person, he surprised himself when he realised he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather spend it with than Dorian Pavus.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian kissed him in return, breaking apart only to laugh and try to catch his breath. “Mm, I don’t-” Another kiss, because Cullen seemed insatiable, wanting to kiss him until he was completely breathless. “-think so,” he continued, laughing when Cullen cut him off _again_ with a kiss. “I’ve been accused of having an unhealthy relationship with the dead, but I don’t think it’s quite _that_ bad.”

Cullen was being stupendously affectionate, and Dorian couldn’t help but laugh for a moment (in between kisses, of course) at the thought that it was rather like being slobbered on by the enormous hounds his people were so fond of; Cullen was passionate, obsessively so, but utterly graceless in his affections. There was something breathtaking about the way he kissed him, with desperation and eagerness and clumsy affection so vastly different to the careful trysts he was used to indulging in back home. 

He realised with a shiver that it was because Cullen’s passion was completely and utterly _honest_ , and that was rather humbling. Best not to think of that at a time like this.

Instead, Dorian enjoyed the attention lavished on him, purring like a contented cat when Cullen shifted him onto his back and deepened the kiss. He considered briefly that perhaps he should tell him that it was alright, that there was no need for them to keep going and _certainly_ no obligation on Cullen’s part because he was quite content to bask in Cullen’s afterglow and have that be the end of things.... but his cock was throbbing and his blood was burning and his heart was beating hard and he wanted _more_.

Maker take his wicked soul, but he wanted Cullen’s mouth on him. 

Dorian felt a smug spike of satisfaction with each little aftershock that shivered through Cullen, the way he gasped and shuddered when he pressed a little closer, hands grabbing tight at his ass, rolling his hips up at him and putting friction on his cock. He relished, even more, the way Cullen said his name, whispered endlessly like a prayer against aching skin, and Maker he felt like he was being worshiped; as, if some reason, he _deserved_ to be worshipped.

“Mnn,” Dorian groaned, burying the flutter of vulnerability that came with the surprise of that thought. “What do you plan on doing with me, amatus?”

Cullen’s lips paused against his momentarily, and in the half inch of space between them Dorian could see the flash of confusion in his eyes, the frustration that came from not knowing what it was that Dorian whispered to him. There was not another man in Thedas even half as beautiful as Cullen- with his kiss-swollen lips and half lidded honey eyes and flushed, writhing body- and Dorian couldn’t help his excitement that, for the moment at least, Cullen belonged only to him.

But, _fuck_ , he was so turned on; it was difficult to strut and gloat when your cock was hard enough to make your mind swim.

The moment dragged onwards and he moaned needily. “ _Cullen_ ,” he said, almost a whine as he squeezed at his ass, “tell me what-”

“I want to do _everything_ ,” Cullen said hoarsely, with a ferocity that stole Dorian’s breath away. “I want to kiss you, _everywhere_. I want to see your teasing façade crumble, I want to see this carefully constructed desire of yours give way to uncontrollable passion. I want _you_ , Dorian Pavus, wild and desperate and quivering and I want to know it’s because of _me_.” 

Were it anyone else, Dorian probably would’ve been embarrassed at the intensity of his response to such a statement; as it was, he would still probably regret it come the morning, but in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt his blood surge and he _whimpered_ , his fingers digging in to Cullen’s back as he kissed him with everything in him, with teeth and tongue and violent, desperate need. 

Patience and sensibility could come back in the morning, along with his ego, once the storm both outside and within the tent had abated.

_I want to do everything._

Maker save him, he’d badly underestimated him. 

Cullen broke the kiss again, a look in his eyes that made Dorian whine, and then lunged downwards, kissing sloppily at Dorian's neck before crawling down his body, nipping at his skin and soothing each little sting with his mouth. He paused at his chest, rubbing the tip of his nose at the hard little bud of his nipple before moving his lips over it and suckling gently, tongue swirling back and forth until Dorian was keening and writhing beneath him; his fingers carefully pinched at the other nipple before he swapped sides, kissing away the ache in the pinched flesh while immediately plucking tauntingly at the other. 

Were he with any of his previous lovers, he might have tried for a playful quip, _anything_ to remove him from the immediacy of the moment, but he couldn’t do that to Cullen in all of his recklessly honest lust. Instead he just moaned and combed his fingers through Cullen’s hair, still delighted by his unruly curls, and he trembled when Cullen kissed his belly, his lips hot and wet. He was humiliatingly ticklish, and the last thing he wanted was to give Cullen yet more power over him than he already had, so he bit his lip and squirmed under his mouth, breath hitching in his throat as his teeth and his tongue trailed eagerly down towards the jewel at his belly.

He was so attentive, sweetly affectionate even despite his hungry claims to his body, even as he was inching close to Dorian’s hardness and the warmth of his thighs. Dorian wanted so badly to tease him, to keep his steady composure and his crooked smile, but Cullen was so gorgeous, and Maker take him, how was he supposed to be steady and detached with a man like that lying between his thighs?

Cullen swirled his tongue over the jewel, sucking it gently between his lips; Dorian moaned, writhing under him and jerking his hips upwards in the desperate hope it would assuage the ache in his cock. He heard Cullen chuckle, felt the laughter as it whispered over his skin and he gritted his teeth. “You never struck me as the teasing sort, Commander,” Dorian said, frustrated by the tremor in his voice.

“I told you to call me by my name,” Cullen said, releasing the small piece of jewellery and nipping at his hipbone, chuckling again when Dorian cried out. 

“You are _insufferably_ bossy-”

“My name?”

“ _Cullen,_ ” he snapped, his head falling back with a cry when Cullen shifted and mouthed him through the fabric of his pants, nuzzling and tonguing the bulge until the front of his breeches were hot and damp. “ _Maker_ , Cullen-”

“Was there something you needed, Dorian?”

He hissed in a breath, his fingers digging into his hair. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he snarled.

Cullen’s laughter was infuriating, but all Dorian could do in response to his teasing was quiver and whine and rock his hips, desperate for closer contact; it was intoxicating and breathtaking, drugging his senses. His skin felt too tight and too hot, like he was about to split open, and his cock was throbbing in his pants, far too overly sensitive but Maker if he wasn’t so fucking aroused by all of the smells and the taste and the sounds. 

At this rate, he’d come before Cullen even touched him, exploding like some fumbling teenage boy with his first tryst. 

And then finally- _Maker, finally!_ \- Cullen was fumbling for the laces on his breeches and he sobbed in relief, lifting his hips to help him tug his pants down, just far enough to free his cock, and-

Cullen sucked in a reverential breath, snapping backwards and glancing up at Dorian with wild eyes, and Dorian whimpered at the heat in his gaze. “Cullen,” he said hoarsely, biting his lip as he watched him lean in slowly and breathe him in, his breath catching in his throat at the tentative, almost reverential way that Cullen’s tongue ran over the head of his cock. 

Dorian closed his eyes and let his head fall back again, quite certain that this must be what paradise was. To have a gorgeous man inching down his body, bathing him in kisses and tender affection, teasing him and spoiling him and treating him like something precious? A gorgeous, honourable man at that, with a tender heart and an amazingly eager mouth and-

He cried out as Cullen suckled gently at the head of his cock, his tongue sweeping over the slit and lapping at the liquid he had already spilled. The piercings that marked his flesh were clearly a surprise to him, if the tentative way he tongued him was anything to go by; perhaps Fereldans weren’t as... adventurous with their body modifications as some of the northern nations tended to be. Perhaps they didn’t indulge themselves at all, if one were to judge by Cullen’s smoothly non-pierced and uninked body. 

His hesitance and his gentleness made a little more sense in such context; doubt began to slither into him, self conscious of his appearance and suddenly convinced that Cullen’s reluctance to just gorge himself on him was borne out of a disgust and _Maker_ he couldn’t stand the humiliation if...

Dorian groaned, rolling his hips up against him to urge him onwards. He wanted friction, he wanted heat, he wanted _more_.

He wanted Cullen to devour him, to do so gleefully and gratefully and greedily.

He dug his fingers into Cullen’s curls, trying to urge him. “Please,” he begged. “Mnn, please, kaffas please, _you’ve won damn it. More_.”

Cullen groaned. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said hoarsely, his fingers sliding down between his legs to play with his balls. 

_Maker_. “You’re too good to be true, you frustrating tease.” His insides were warm and fluttery, and it was all he could do not to pull Cullen up to him and kiss his sweet face and mouth. Back in Tevinter, he was desired, but never treasured; wanted, but not needed. No previous lover had ever expressed a great deal of concern for his own pleasure and comfort- affairs had to be brief and uncomplicated, as a matter of survival, and though it had hurt he had always understood the necessity for it. And yet here, in one breathy whisper, Cullen had shown him more affection, more gentleness, than he had ever known.

He wanted to tell him how good he was, how beautiful, but his tongue was tied and his heart was in his throat. All Dorian could do was push his fingers through Cullen’s hair, settling his fingers at the nape of his neck as he panted softly.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Dorian whispered, sure that Cullen could hear the affection in his voice, the raw emotion that tightened his throat. “It feels so good, lov- Cullen.”

Cullen glanced up at him, and Dorian shivered violently, his hips twitching with the need to buck upwards and bury himself in his mouth. He hadn’t meant to slip up, hadn’t meant to throw himself into the deep end with such casual affection, and if Cullen had noticed the endearment and was alarmed by it...

After an agonizingly long moment he smiled wickedly, the look in his eyes making Dorian whimper. “Good,” he whispered. With a growl, Cullen swallowed around him, taking him as deep as he could without choking himself, his tongue flat against the piercings along his length while he suckled hard. 

Dorian cried out hysterically, bucking up against his mouth, the cry trailing off into a moan when Cullen hummed around him; Dorian’s fingers urged him down, and Cullen let himself be led. With a little more determination he moved his mouth over Dorian’s cock, sucking a little harder, moving a little faster. Dorian whimpered, encouraging him with fingers in his hair and along his cheek; Cullen took that as a sign to be bolder, and he ran his tongue along the underside of his cock, tangling softly with every piercing as he went.

“ _Cullen_ ,” he moaned.

The tent smelled of sex, musky and wild; Dorian’s piercings clinked gently against his teeth each time Cullen eased over them, and the walls of the tent flapped while the storm outside raged on. Between his legs, Cullen was half wild, his ass moving as he rutted against the pile of furs, apparently as desperately turned on as he was. Seeing him like that, seeing him so hungry as he moved his mouth over him, Dorian whined needily, and he glanced down to see dark eyes connect with his and strip him bare, burning straight through him and leaving him exposed and raw.

Dorian had had a man between his legs and inside of him before; he’d been fucked and kissed and taken with wild, passionate abandon. But there was something unique in how Cullen touched and tasted and pleasured him. Every fiber of him was wild for him, and when he managed to speak, a sobbing, choked noise, all he could say was his name.

Cullen let go of his hip and reached up, prising his hand from where it was buried in his hair and instead twining his fingers through his, resting their hands together on the blanket and squeezing. 

Somewhere, there was a low whining noise. He thought it must have been the wind, howling and screaming outside their tent; but he realized after a moment that it was _him_ making the noise, almost sobbing with pleasure. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t desperate and needy for him, skin hot and tight and tingling, bones almost vibrating, muscles quivering, blood on fire.

He met his gaze again and Cullen quickened his pace.

_Hold on_ , he told himself. _Hold on, hold on, hold o-_

Dorian’s back arched sharply as he came, sucking in air violently in a deep gasp as his hips pumped against Cullen’s face and he spilled down his throat with a choked cry. His fingers clung so tightly to Cullen’s that it was a wonder they didn’t break; Cullen let him, apparently delighted at the fierce grip, running his thumb over the backs of his knuckles in a soothing gesture, determined to let it say what he cannot while his mouth is otherwise occupied. 

Such a small show of affection, such an insignificant gesture in the grand scheme of things, but it undoes him. The orgasm blinded him, his hips jerking and his feet pressing into Cullen’s back as he was dragged off by a wave of sensation. 

It took some time for his thoughts to collect themselves, for him to come back to himself with any sort of coherency. _Well_ , he thought, when he could think anything at all, _Fuck._

Between his legs, Cullen pulled away carefully, easing his lips over each of the piercings as gently as possible before stopping to lick tenderly at the head of his cock, taking his time to clean him up with a genuine care the likes of which Dorian had never experienced before. He whimpered and trembled in the aftermath, each stroke of Cullen’s tongue making him twitch anew, while in his heart grew an utterly stunned confusion at the affection Cullen seemed determined to show him. 

Even with nothing else to gain- even with pleasure behind them and nothing but awkwardness to look forward to now that they’d thoroughly ravished each other without a thought for how to conduct themselves as professionals in the weeks to come, Cullen _still_ showed him tenderness. 

Blighted blasted honorable _bastard_.

Completely unaware of the fact that Dorian was teetering on the verge of an emotional crisis, Cullen crawled his way back up towards him, not so much kissing him as nuzzling him every single inch of the way, planting kisses and promises against his skin. When Dorian’s hands grabbed at him, fingers digging in fiercely enough to leave bruises, Cullen chuckled and let himself be pulled upwards, murmuring wordless encouragements to him as he settled over him and dipped his head to kiss him.

There, more affection, more quiet intimacy that Dorian found as addicting as he did unsettling, a goodness and a warmth that he’d seen in him as a friend, but hadn’t truly expected that...

_I love you,_ Dorian thought suddenly, abruptly, his fingers slipping against Cullen’s sweat damp skin, sinking against his biceps. The words shocked him, enough for Dorian to break their kiss and look up at Cullen, panicked that he had said the words aloud.

When Cullen only stared down at him in confusion, an unasked question in his eyes, Dorian relaxed marginally and shook his head to pretend that everything was fine; instead, he wound his arms around his shoulders and pressed himself tight against him, nuzzling against Cullen’s throat from the safety of an angle where Cullen couldn’t see his face.

His heart still racing from his release, his muscles and skin still hot and shivering, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen come the morning. What would happen when the sweat had cooled and dried, and their breathing had softened; when the quiet gave them time to reflect, and worse, to regret? Cullen couldn’t venture out into the storm without making himself vulnerable to frostbite and death again, but what of when the storm died down and the sun rose again, when Cullen had to climb rather publicly from his tent and face the stares and the whispers?

Was he just going to be another fling, another pleasant accident, another easily forgotten diversion? Would Cullen stand before him and stammer awkwardly and make excuses, claiming how much he _cherished_ their friendship, and how wouldn’t it be best just to go back to the way things were?

“ _Stop it_ ,” he mumbled, and it was only when Cullen grunted sleepily in response that he realised he’d said it aloud. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and breathed in the smell of him, trying to quell the bubble of unease in his stomach. “It’s nothing, sorry.”

Dorian wanted to ask, with everything in him he desperately wanted to ask what this means and what tomorrow means, but he couldn’t quite summon the words. He wasn’t brave enough. Instead, he said his name softly, tenderly against Cullen’s throat, and wrapped his legs and arms tight around him, trying to ignore the fact that tomorrow would come faster than he was ready for it.

Cullen tightened his arms around him in return, nuzzling at the top of his head in response to each faint kiss Dorian whispered over his throat. His hands stroked absently along his bare back, his calloused palms gentle on his skin, and Dorian shivered when Cullen breathed deeply against his hair. 

“You’re very tense,” Cullen murmured, words half slurred from sleep. He would have died out there tonight, were it not for Dorian. He would have slowed and crawled to a halt, lost and frozen in the blizzard, determined to do his blighted duty even unto death, had not Dorian grabbed him and scolded him and pulled him into safety, warming him and drying him and...

... and now this complication. 

Dorian closed his eyes, softly breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and _Cullen_ , trying to muddle through the clamor in his head and his heart. He didn’t have an answer for him, not that Cullen had particularly framed it as a question, but... he didn’t know what to say to him. He wasn’t about to just blurt out the entirety of his fragile psyche and paranoia to him, no matter how much he desperately wanted to ask what it all meant, what Cullen’s tenderness meant, what the fact that he continued to hold him meant-

_Kaffas, you moonstruck, irrational idiot._

The silence stretched between them. It wasn’t _entirely_ uncomfortable, but there were things he wanted to say, things he believed Cullen deserved to hear, but he knew better than to risk his heart and his hopes. This was one single night, one moment, and there was no reason for him to get himself all tangled up over some beautiful man who had only passed a storm with him.

For tonight, he was content enough to hold Cullen and feel his body close to him and his pulse throb under his lips.

The only thing he said as his eyes grew drowsy and his breathing slowed was, “Good night, amatus.”

Cullen stiffened again, and Dorian tensed in response, certain that the endearment had pushed the last of his luck and that Cullen was about to snarl some cruel reprimand at him; when Cullen jerked back slightly, Dorian prepared himself for the worst, his heart sinking into his stomach with a sickening lurch when he saw the wary apprehension in Cullen’s face. 

“I, um...” 

_And here it comes._

Biting his lip as if he was embarrassed, Cullen reached down between them, propping himself up on an elbow while his cheeks flamed scarlet; he rather politely took hold of Dorian’s now flaccid cock and tucked it back inside his pants for him. At Dorian’s grunt of surprise, his fingers fumbled slightly, but he studiously did not look up while he tied the laces on Dorian’s breeches for him, settling his pants back snugly around his hips. 

Satisfied with the attempt, or at least certain his pants would protect him from the cold for the remainder of the evening, he risked a quick glance at Dorian, the most preciously sheepish look on his face imaginable. “Good night, um... Dorian.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, emotion burning at his eyes, until he knew he couldn’t hide it any longer and laughed shakily, tucking his head back under Cullen’s chin so he couldn’t see the way his lip trembled and his eyes watered, so that he would go to sleep assuming Dorian found his awkward chivalry delightfully quaint and amusing, instead of breathtakingly devastating. He pulled Cullen back to him so that their skin was flush together, warm and intimate and intoxicating. 

He felt Cullen pull the blanket up over them both, his lips brushing against his forehead again as he settled down beside him for sleep.

The storm was still howling outside as he drifted off to sleep, Cullen’s heartbeat drumming a gentle tattoo against his cheek; he allowed himself to hope that- just this once- he might not wake up alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian blinked once, then twice, stretching languidly- before lunging upright, his heart lurching up into his throat as his memories of the night before came back to him in a rush. He fumbled into a sitting position and looked blearily around the tent, rubbing desperately at his eyes to clear the sleep and the fog away. All he wanted was to tell Cullen that he was rather fond of him, but he was however rather desperate to get the taste of him out of his mouth, morning breath and all- but when he cleared the sleep from his eyes, Cullen was nowhere to be seen.

He was alone in the tent, aching and tender- especially his heart.

He shuddered and drew his knees up to his chest, his heart sinking until he felt nauseous. Foolish of him, of course, he knew that he and Cullen... well it was only ever going to be a one time thing, a dalliance, a night passed in a storm; but still, he felt the old familiar flush of shame and hurt and anger wash over him. How many mornings had he woken up with a man’s taste still on his tongue, with bruises on his hips in the shape of his fingers, with the shape of him in the sheets, but no warm and welcoming arms to turn to?

Just his own company, and the shame that he had convinced himself to think otherwise. 

Dorian tossed off the blankets, untangling himself with a string of foul curses, and pushed out of bed; everything still smelled like sex, musky and tantalizing, and his cock apparently took that as encouragement, hardening awkwardly between his legs. 

Traitorous body.

The pitcher of water he’d left in the corner the night before had a sheen of ice on top, and he cursed the south and the snow and every bloody southerner as he gritted his teeth and poured a measure out into his hand to splash onto his face, dipping a cloth into the icy water to make the experience even worse while he scrubbed hastily at his body.

He felt a new surge of anger with each mark he found on his skin, proof of Cullen’s ardor the night before when he’d been so eager to leave the brand of his teeth upon him. He shivered as he brushed his fingers over each one, jaw clenched, trying to forget the reverential look in Cullen’s eyes as his mouth had traced over his body. 

He dressed quickly and wrapped himself in his cloak before pushing out of his tent; the endeavor was more difficult than he’d imagined, snow piled at least halfway up the outside of the tent. It was a wonder Cullen hadn’t woken him when he’d climbed out. The storm had well and truly passed, the sky cloudy in the distance but with cold sunshine filtering down on them. Around him, everything was awash in a strange sort of muted chaos, soldiers and civilians attempting to rush about between the half buried tents, but struggling to fight against the immense depth of some of the drifts. 

He felt his stomach sink in horror when he spotted tents collapsed beneath the weight of the snow piled atop them; he was inexperienced with storms, true, but intelligent enough to recognize that there had likely been deaths in the night. 

And Cullen had wanted to be one of them.

Dorian gritted his teeth and scanned the crowds of people, telling himself he was certainly _not_ looking for Cullen, yet making a beeline for him when he spotted the telltale red fur coat against the white snow, and the small crowd of scouts and soldiers all trying to get his attention and ask for instructions. 

He was gesturing to a few scouts particularly, and the look on his face was dark and grim. Dorian hesitated, uncertainty dragging at his heels, but when the crowd around him dispersed it seemed like an offering from the Maker Himself; he stalked up behind him and gripped his arm, surprising Cullen when he moved to leave, apparently without having noticed him.

And... _fuck_ , he hadn’t thought this far ahead; he didn’t know what he wanted to say to the blighted fool, only that he was angry and he was hurt and he was incredibly insulted, and he didn’t know precisely how to have that conversation without making a scene. 

“Cullen,” he said. He was angry, and ashamed, and he felt stupid for caring so much about their night of foolishness in the first place. Swallowing down the worst of his emotional upheaval, Dorian forced strength into his voice. “Do you have a moment?”

The hand on his arm dragged him out of his morose self flagellation, and he looked up to find himself staring into a pair of dark grey eyes he remembered most recently for the way they had widened beautifully in surprise and desperation on the verge of orgasm. But Dorian’s face was hardly pleasant this morning, his eyes cold like steel instead, and Cullen found himself daunted by his expression.

His head was already aching.

The sun bounced off the thick new banks of snow, gleaming and painfully white, and the hand he kept raising to his eyes did little to shield them from the relentless glare that surrounded them in every direction. The sky was almost insultingly clear, the storm clouds of the night before nothing but a faint memory now but for a line on the horizon, and his legs were burning already from slogging through snowdrifts as deep as his thighs all morning.

Although there were other reasons his thighs might be aching-

He cut off that thought as quickly as it surfaced. 

The sweat on his body was freezing, but there was still too much work to be done. There were entire tents still half buried beneath the drifts, people crawling out of them shivering and bewildered. They didn’t have nearly enough food for a forced march like this, and there were those who would not survive another night without nourishment. 

There were those who had not survived _last_ night, just as he had feared, and with each scout that approached him with a bleak expression on their face he felt a little more of his soul chip away, a little more of his heart consumed by guilt and grief and anger. 

So the request, however politely worded, stabbed into his heart like an accusation. “Actually, I don’t,” he said, ashamed for a moment at how hoarse his voice was. Was it grief that his words broke upon, or was it exhaustion after a night of hedonistic pleasure? He felt his ears heat, a precursor to the blush inevitably rising in his cheeks. “Too many have died already for my... _moments._ ”

The words were cruel, and he knew it the moment they left his mouth; Dorian paled as if he had slapped him, his eyes going wide and skittering away from his gaze. 

Fucking _damn_ it. 

He sighed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Dorian,” he began, trying to conjure up the words to adequately apologize, but Dorian’s jaw clenched angrily and the word “ _Don’t_ ” hissed out from between clenched teeth. 

Swallowing down his guilt and pride- a painful, jagged thing to swallow at even the best of times- Dorian turned his eyes to the people of Haven, to the soldiers of the Inquisition. They moved about almost aimlessly, dazed and exhausted by yet more tragedy, more like wounded animals limping towards relative safety than people who, days earlier, had had a home and a purpose.

What would have changed, if he hadn’t grabbed Cullen and pulled him into the warmth of his tent? What would have happened if he’d let him wander around in the snow and ice, desperate and crazed and frostbitten?

Cullen would have _died_. That was all that would have changed. He wouldn’t have been able to save anyone, in the state he’d been in. But the sharpness of his words cut through him, because all Dorian could hear was that it was his fault. 

_If you hadn’t grabbed me._

_If you hadn’t touched me._

_If you hadn’t kissed me._

The shame was powerful, the guilt even more so. But above it all, towering over everything, was his anger, and his frustration at how suicidally determined Cullen seemed to be to carry the brunt of the loss and death on his heart and shoulders by himself.

“You're a _fool_ ,” Dorian snapped, too hurt and upset to even bother keeping his voice low. “You would have died last night if you’d kept searching- is that what you want? What good would that have done, for those living or dead?” Feeling curious eyes on him at his raised voice, Dorian flushed deeper and squeezed Cullen’s arm warningly. “ _Make_ time for me, Cullen.”

Cullen had faced down demons and tyrants and creatures who fancied themselves gods, but for some reason, the anger in Dorian’s face was an entirely new level of unsettling. He held himself silently for a long moment, studying the stormy grey of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. His fingers dug in to his arm so tightly that he glanced down, half expecting to see the coat shredded by the pressure of his fingernails.

He breathed out slowly through his nose, heart like lead in his chest. “Fine,” he said, his voice cracking on the word. “Maker’s Breath, keep your voice down, I’ll take five minutes.” He gritted his teeth. “But my guilt is my own, Dorian, and you really do not need to concern yourself with it.” 

Was this even the same man who had whispered his name like it was a prayer just hours earlier, so cold and blank now? Dorian felt his stomach roll and sink, but he pushed through his unease- his anger that he was apparently not as important to Cullen as his guilt and need to be seen publicly consumed by it- and walked with him through the snow towards the treeline where they might have a chance at privacy.

Once or twice he fumbled, sinking deeper into the drifting snow than he was expecting, and Cullen gripped his arm each time and steadied him instantly, his touch gentle but firm. Dorian ignored the fluttering through his insides, and pointedly pulled away from Cullen’s touch each time once he was steady on his feet again. That didn’t stop Cullen from reaching to catch him each time he stumbled, and his treacherous heart seemed determined to swoon over his assistance like it _meant_ something. If things were going to end after one night, it was better for him not to get too tangled up in the man; best that he made the break as clean and as simple as possible, for both their sakes. He was used to such things, to painful morning-afters, and he would not let Cullen see him flinch, no matter how bitter the sting of it might be.

When they came to a stop, shaded by a heavy pine tree that was overburdened with snow along the overhead boughs, Dorian stood there with words climbing over one another in his throat and onto his tongue. They were still within view of the camp, safely outside of hearing range but still easily visible against the dark wall of the trees. _Discretion_ , his brain reminded him, a habit of a lifetime. _Don’t give them a reason to talk._

And yet now that he had Cullen alone, he couldn’t seem to keep his thoughts straight and focused. He could only look at him, desperate, fumbling for words, wanting so badly just to hold him and kiss him and curse him for a fool for wanting to give so much of himself to everyone and keep nothing for himself.

And that was selfish of _him_ , wasn’t it? That was familiar, that was an accusation that felt like a painfully comfortable old coat settling over his shoulders- selfish Dorian, unable to look past his own wants, his own desires. Selfish, self-absorbed Dorian, who couldn’t see the bigger picture, who couldn’t-

He bit his lip and looked off into the distance, afraid that if he looked at Cullen and saw only confirmation of his inner monologue in his eyes, he’d make a fool of himself. 

More of a fool, anyway. 

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “You don’t owe _anyone_ your life,” Dorian said softly. Strange, now that he was away from everyone and standing close to Cullen without fear of being overheard, he couldn’t seem to raise his voice above a whisper. At the end of it, that was what mattered, that was what hurt him the most. Not that Cullen seemed to be pulling away from him, not that their night together was brief and hot and final. It was the fact that Cullen couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that he didn’t have to die for the people of Haven- that he hadn’t failed them- and that they wouldn't ever ask it of him.

He crossed his arms tightly, so that he couldn’t reach out and shake him. “You don't have to _die_ to make things better,” Dorian said. “That’s... Maker, Fereldans are so _daft_. You are so _ridiculous_ , Cullen.”

Cullen didn’t answer him immediately, and after a few long moments Dorian began to fear that he wouldn’t answer him at all. His jaw was set like stone, and his eyes... Maker but his eyes were so painful to look at, so hurt and so miserable and so resigned. “I gave my life to an institution that turned out to be nothing but a lie- corrupt and rotting and swollen with greed and hate and violence,” he said finally, his voice stilted as if he had to force each word past his lips with great difficulty. “I offered up my life, on multiple occasions, for the Chantry and for the Templars, and I very nearly had to pay that price. If I... if I cannot offer the same devotion, the same unflinching sacrifice, to an organisation dedicated to all of the goodness and all of the justice that the Templars were not, then I am a fool and a hypocrite, no matter how much you want to insist otherwise.”

Maker, but his head was aching- and frustratingly, so was his heart. Were it not bad enough already struggling under the weight of the death and the loss and the plummeting morale, but to have Dorian lash out at him, chastise him for things he couldn't _possibly_ understand...

Three times now, he had run from death- when the Conclave had exploded, when Haven had been attacked, and now last night during the storm. Three times now, others had paid the ultimate sacrifice that should have fallen to him, because if he could not stand by his principles, if he could not protect those who needed his protection the most...

... then what good was he?

His eyes were burning, and he told himself it was the glare from the snow making them water and ache. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said roughly, refusing to look at him. “You have your reasons for joining our cause, as I have mine. No matter what I might personally desi-” He snapped his mouth shut on the word, swallowing it back. “What I might personally _want_ ,” he corrected, although it wasn’t much of a better choice, “I have a duty that comes before any such desires.”

And just like that, the ghosts of the past surged up around him, tittering mockingly in his ear. As clearly as if they were right beside him, Dorian could hear the voices of every lover who had told him that he was a pleasant enough diversion, but that things need to end, the laughter implicit if not voiced aloud as they mockingly soothed him for his foolish over-commitment. 

_I’m sorry, Dorian._

_It’s for the best._

_You just can’t understand._

For once, hurt and anger silenced him; for once, no scathing, witty retort jumped to mind, to protect him and to salvage his dignity. He wanted to tell him that he knew the enemy they faced, he knew what was at stake, and he knew what it meant to stand for something greater than himself. But instead, all he could do was stare at him, eyes stinging, lungs burning, lips betraying him as they trembled pathetically.

When he could speak without humiliating himself, all he said was, “I apologize, Commander. I will do my best not to bother you again.”

Dorian turned to leave and Cullen felt his heart lurch up into his throat; his hand snaked out, almost without his conscious engagement in the thought, and he grasped Dorian by the arm. Anything to stop him from walking away, anything to soothe the hurt in his eyes. 

Anything was a dangerous word. 

He didn’t stop to think, because if he had time to think he might second guess himself; instead, he dragged Dorian back under the cover of the pine tree and pushed him up against the trunk. Surprise flashed over Dorian’s face, and he opened his mouth, obviously to ask him what the Void had gotten into him, but Cullen didn’t have an answer for that. 

Instead he pressed in close to him, his hands going up to frame his face as he leaned in and kissed him _hard_. Dorian let out a small sound, surprise and desire and frustration all in one, and after a moment his hands came to rest hesitantly on Cullen’s hips. A moment longer and Cullen felt him melt against him, his mouth soft and pliant under his as he kissed him. 

When Cullen pulled away, panting hard, Dorian shivered visibly and rested his forehead against his. “You give _appallingly_ mixed messages, Commander,” he said under his breath.

“Dorian,” he said, and then gritted his teeth in frustration. He was not and never had been a clever man with words, and even now he already felt foolish for imposing the kiss on him. “You are not a _bother_.” 

Even saying the word aloud angered him, because Dorian had said it too easily, like it was a word he had heard too many times from others and learned to parrot it on cue.

“I...” He swallowed, the taste of him in his mouth yet again. “I regret the timing of our... dalliance, but I...” Maker, this was humiliating, stuttering over the words like some besotted boy. “I do not regret you. Us. _This_.” He still had his face between his hands, and he pressed a short, hard kiss to his lips. “Please- do mistake one for the other.”

Dorian waited for the inevitable _‘but’_ that so often followed such declarations of affection, holding his breath nervously, and when it didn’t come he risked opening his eyes to look into Cullen's face.

What he saw was a man tired and hurting and afraid and small; what he saw was a man who wanted so desperately to be better, and who didn’t know how good he truly was.

His heart skipped a beat in his chest. “Maker, you’re beautiful,” he blurted out, biting his lip in a panic as if he could snatch the words back. He lifted his chin almost defiantly. “But you are a _dreadfully_ inconsiderate brute, I’ll have you know.” 

Cullen stared at him, and Dorian rolled his eyes. “Well, you _are_ ,” he said, as if that was the final word on the matter. Yet Cullen continued to stare at him, and the sense of relief he’d experienced with the kiss began to bleed away. “What’s wrong?”

He cleared his throat, not because he had a particular need to, but the stalling tactic helped to cover his bewilderment. “Dorian,” he began, hesitating as he tried to cobble together some vague string of words that would make him sound calmly charming, instead of just nervous. “There are things we need to discuss- things _I_ need to say.” He grimaced. “And apologize for.”

“By all means, Commander, I am all ears.”

“Not _here_ ,” Cullen said irritably, realising a moment later how that sounded a groaning, ducking his head against Dorian’s shoulder. “ _Maker_ , I apologise, that was unworthy of you.”

Dorian rather pointedly cleared his throat, and Cullen gritted his teeth and straightened, laying his hands flat against Dorian’s shoulders. “You have been a good friend to me,” he said stiltedly, “far better than I have deserved, at times.”

“At the moment I’m inclined to agree with you,” Dorian said, deceptively pleasant. 

“Yes, alright,” he said, voice pained; Dorian’s hands were still on his hips, and that had to be a good sign that he hadn’t pushed him away entirely. “The point is, Dorian, that you deserve better- certainly far better than how I have treated you.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth he realised his mistake, from the way Dorian stiffened under his palms; a shuttered look fell over his eyes, blank and cold. “I see,” he said casually, “I must say, Cullen, very clever of you to turn this around and make it out to be for my benefit.”

“What? No, I didn’t-”

“If you would be so kind, however, as to be honest, I’d appreciate it. This hot and cold act is excessively exhausting.”

“I want to do _better_ ,” he said, almost frantically, gripping him by his shoulders. “ _Maker_ , that’s all I’m trying to say! I don’t want you to go, I don’t want you to feel slighted or like I’m trying to dismiss you, I want-” He cursed softly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I want _you_ , Dorian.”

He emphasized his point by lunging forward again and kissing him furiously, and this time Dorian matched his passion. He pressed him fiercely up against the tree, pinning him between the trunk and his body, burying one hand in his hair. Dorian, for his part, threw himself into the kiss almost angrily, panting and nipping at his lips, his hands flat against his lower back as he pulled him flush against him. 

“You are so _frustrating_ ,” Dorian said breathlessly between kisses, groaning against his mouth. “How dare you... _venhedis_ , do you intend to ravish me up against this tree like a savage, in full view of the camp?”

“We’re behind a tree,” Cullen said, but he pulled back instantly at the hint of panic in Dorian’s voice, heaving for breath as he touched his fingertips to Dorian’s mouth. “But if it worries you-”

“Why would it worry me? Am I not the great corrupting influence, the deviant Magister of forbidden tastes? If anything, you should be worried about being seen with _me_.”

Cullen stilled, his expression softening. “Dorian,” he said quietly, and then sighed wearily, rubbing at his face as he tried to collect his thoughts. “One, you are not a magister.”

Dorian blinked in surprise, the bitter look evaporating from his face, and he laughed delightedly. “Well, it’s nice to know that _someone_ listens to my endless ranting on the misconceptions of the minutiae of Tevinter society.”

“And two,” Cullen said, “if it would ease the pain in your heart, yes- I would not have a problem for everyone in the camp to see me in your company. I mean, I’m not overly fond of gossip, but-”

“ _Cullen_.”

“This was... this was not the manner in which I would have preferred to-” He swallowed and forced out the word before it choked him, “- _court_ you, Dorian, and you deserved better than the mess I have tangled us in here.:

He took a deep breath and charged onwards, before Dorian could interrupt him. “If you would allow it, I would prefer for us to start over- with less of the freezing to death and running for our lives and perhaps a little more... moderation.”

_Court you._

Dorian swallowed. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I misheard you- did you just say-”

“That I wished to court you? Yes, you heard me correctly- although if we are to have an ongoing repeat of our conversations from last night, I’d suggest we move someone more comfortable before advancing to any of the more naked parts of the conversation.”

The words were so gentle, a subtle tease and so unexpected from Cullen, of all people, that Dorian couldn’t help himself- he laughed, the sound shakier than he would have liked, and touched his forehead to Cullen’s. “You are...” He laughed again, tears pricking at his eyes. “You ridiculous man, what on earth possessed you to say something so dramatically overblown? Am I now to be some simpering Orlesian nobleman, swooning in the presence of my dashing Chevalier?”

“Only if such a scenario is of particular interest to you.”

Dorian laughed more genuinely now, looping his hands around Cullen’s neck. “You dastardly man, are you- of _all_ people- making some sort of devious joke about gaming in the bedroom?”

Cullen’s laugh matched his, and then his hands were on his hips and around his waist, pulling him into him, as his head dipped toward his. Dorian whispered his name, soft and needing, and closed his eyes expectantly...

A rather loud _ahem_ had them scrambling apart in alarm, Dorian smacking his head on the tree trunk behind him while Cullen went sprawling backwards into the snow. A few feet away, a soldier in the colors of the Inquisition’s scouts stood with the most mortified expression on her face, looking to all intents and purposes like she was about to pitch forward into the snow in a dead faint herself. 

Dorian sighed irritably, trying to calm the racing of his heart that had lurched into a panic at the prospect of being discovered; that wasn’t something he had to fear here- not in this country, and not with Cullen. “What in the Maker’s name do you want?” he snapped.

The woman stared between the two of them, her face ashen. “No, no, I’m so sorry messeres, it’s nothing. It’s nothing pressing, I mean. It’s-” She looked like she was waiting for the earth to swallow her up. “I’ll- I’ll leave you be,” she whispered. “Apologies, Commander.”

Dorian cleared his throat pointedly, and her eyes widened in a panic.

“Apologies, Magister, um, messere...”

She turned on her heel and promptly fled back towards the main camp. 

They looked at each other, Dorian slumped against the tree and Cullen sprawled in the snow, and as one they sighed and said “ _Altus_.”

Dorian could be charming with the world falling down around his feet- in fact, he's shown he was capable of exactly that- and even with the grim spectre of death and desperation hanging over them, it was a little hard to hold onto a sense of sobriety and solemnity when Dorian seems determined to play the part of the dashing rogue. Albeit a dashing rogue with a heartbreaking need for reassurance that he was not a _bother_.

If Cullen ever found out who had seared such cruel words onto Dorian’s heart, he didn’t think their meeting would be a polite one. “A little help?” he asked meekly, holding a hand up towards Dorian; wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, Dorian complied, clasping his wrist and pulling him back to his feet, pulling him a little too firmly so that he staggered into him.

“Rather eager, aren’t we, Commander?” he asked teasingly, his hands flat against Cullen’s chest as he leaned into him. “Aren’t you worried about being discreet?”

“Discretion rather went out the window when one of my men caught us a hairsbreadth away from making out like overeager teens in the snow,” he said, just as teasingly. “And as much as I’d desperately love to continue such an encounter, the Inquisition and the people of Haven need Commander Rutherford right now, which means that _this_ -” he gestures between the two of them “-needs to wait.”

He reached up and put a gloved hand over Dorian’s wrist where it rested on his chest. “I promise you, you will have my full attention, and my extensive apologies, once my duties are seen to. I... is my word enough for you, for now?”

Dorian heaved a heavy, melodramatic sigh. “Oh, I suppose so,” he said. “I don’t imagine you’d tell me pretty lies when you’re intending to court me like the delicate flower that I am.”

Cullen smiled ruefully. “If my attempts at chivalry are going to be an ongoing source of amusement for you-”

“Oh, hush,” Dorian scolded, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “You’ve a long day ahead of you, and you will need reasons to laugh by the time the day is done.”

Cullen stared at him for several moments and then sighed, reaching up to take his hand. Of course he was right- there were bodies to deal with, supplies to redistribute. The dead would have no use for their boots, or their clothes, and in weather like this it could mean the difference between life or death for some other poor soul in the caravan. Pyres to build, souls to commend to the Void, not to mention how many survivors would need care and healing and food, and-

And he was getting away from himself and stressing over things he had no power over. 

He looked back to Dorian, waiting attentively, and said “I need to see how the digging goes, and I’m sure they wouldn’t say no to the assistance of a mage to help warm the injured.” He took a deep breath. “And... if it is to your... that is, if it is acceptable to you, I would very much like to take supper with you. Tonight, I mean.”

Quickly, before anyone else could interrupt them, Dorian leaned in and kissed him, soft and gentle as his fingers brushed against his cheek.

"That is very much to my liking, Commander,” he whispered. “I’ll see you tonight.”


End file.
